


Where the Wind Won't Change

by Morse_s Child (sherlockstummy)



Series: Werewolf Drabbles [7]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gen, No Spoilers, Post-Neverland, Werewolves, mentions of thursday's condition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 17:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5710204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockstummy/pseuds/Morse_s%20Child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When there's a lycanthropic policeman in a prison cell, what are bored and vengeful prison guards to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Wind Won't Change

Morse paced in his cell. 

Full moon tonight.

Someone who’d taken pity on him had told him how the guards knew he was a lycanthrope. Were talking about how fun it would be to see him feral.

Thursday had told Morse a long time ago that psychedelic drugs—illegal, but easy enough to obtain—caused strange effects on lycanthropes, making them wild, confused.

Like animals.

Morse stared at his hands, shaking. No silver on him tonight; he would transform. He could hear the breathing of the anxious prison guards. Tonight would be a show for them and the prisoners, too.

Morse had tried to resist the food he was given. Usually, he pulled everything apart, only eating bread, if anything. But he couldn’t help being hungry, being ravenous. He’d had nothing to eat all day, and hunger builds up over time. Man cannot live on bread alone, though Morse wasn’t thinking God was the solution to his empty stomach at the moment.

He’d eaten the food. And he knew at once that it was laced with drugs. He memorized the taste and smell so he would know. Never would he be feral again. 

The sun began to set behind the hills, filling his cell with warm, golden light. Morse’s head snapped up, heart rate accelerating. He could barely make out what anything was, with the wolf taking over fast. He cried out, falling to the floor of his cell. He thought of Thursday lying on the ground, still, immobile. He bowed his head.

Darkness filled his cell, replaced by bright moonlight. Morse howled.

 

They were herding him with cattle prods. Werewolves were quite large, usually; easily into the torso of a grown man. Morse was small and young, but plenty of wolf to be getting on with. Morse snarled as one of the guards got too close. He got a prod to his ribs, crying out in response. Pain. Everything hurt, and his head felt heavy. He could feel his bones scraping against skin as he walked—limped, thanks to the clumsy misstep. His red fur had grown curly, untamed. And he felt strangely out of control. He knew it was the drugs. He knew.

They pushed him into the exercise yard. Barbed wire ran high around the edges. Morse could hear jeering from on high, above the wire fence he was in. Morse snarled, lunging uselessly at the noise. His head and chest collided painfully with metal. His dazed vision caught the blob shapes of the guards. He could smell each and every one of their cheap cologne. He barked loudly, cursing them out in wolf language. Not that they could understand.

He heard a door to his cage open. Morse turned sharply, but with his vision distorted by the drugs and his mind repressed, he couldn’t see where it was. But his nose still worked, and he smelled prey.

A deer, radiating fear, had been let into the cage with him. Morse lowered his body in preparation to lap. His stomach’s anxious growling was ringing in his ears, making him dizzy. He was so hungry. He just wanted to eat.

He lunged, paws flying off the ground. The deer turned and ran. He had strong, tall antlers. Morse hated antlers. He was young, and couldn’t yet take down a buck on his own. 

The buck, cornered, reared his head. The antlers caught Morse by the shoulders before he could bite and threw him off. Morse’s spine hit the cage, catching the wound of a silver bullet that still stung. Morse whimpered, a clump of fur on the ground. He stood, bad hip making his entire limb shake. The burning of the wound pulsed throughout, as if it was fresh. 

The buck pawed the ground. He was strong and determined to live, but Morse’s stomach made him driven. It was, clearly, kill or be killed in this cage tonight.

Morse tried a different tactic. He rushed the deer without lunging, diving low to catch the ankles of the buck’s long legs. He was scratched by the sharpened edges of the antlers, but the buck could not throw him. Morse dashed away, tasting blood. He’d turned his back on the virile buck and received a kick for his troubles.

He could hear the jeering from all around him rising in intensity. He couldn’t tell who the crowd wanted to win…but he knew he had to. He licked his chops. He could smell blood, though he couldn’t see where the buck was bleeding. Morse shook himself.

As he jumped again, strobing lights showed up in the corner of his eyes. He tried to focus on his jump, but he couldn’t. He turned and saw the guards flashing their torches in his eyes.

Morse hit the cold metal hard head-on. He whimpered, standing up slower this time. The buck was still alive, but tired now. Morse was usually patient enough to let difficult prey bleed out, but he just couldn’t wait this time.

Morse leapt at the vulnerable stomach of the deer and bit hard. Though the buck struggled, Morse dug his teeth in, knowing this would be the end.  
He devoured the deer down to the bones, cracking them open to eat the marrow. He heard displeasure from the gallery above. 

They all wanted him to die.

This nightmare wasn’t over yet.


End file.
